


Homecoming

by waatsoned



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23906617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waatsoned/pseuds/waatsoned
Summary: In which John Watson re-learns the meaning of family, and where his true home lies.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Homecoming

Rosie’s squalling, and  _god_ ,  he’s tired. He doesn’t know what bloody lot in life he’s gotten, made to be a single father and still living in the flat that belonged to his dead wife. The flat had always been Mary’s. It’d been hers, before John had even come into her life. John had simply moved there, filled it with his things, and eventually Rosie’s, but . . . it had never truly felt like his own.

He wonders why he hasn’t sold the damned place yet, but he hasn’t even looked for a place for himself.

**_ You could always go back to Baker Street. _ **

No. He couldn’t just show up there with himself and a baby in tow, and even though it’d been months since Sherrinford and all that lay right before it, things with Sherlock still felt stilted.

John’s exhausted blue eyes travel over to his daughter, to where she fussed in her crib. There’s still so much he has to learn, about this whole parenting thing. So much was pushed into his struggling arms with Mary’s death, and he was still trying to handle the burden. He’ll never be able to forget the amount of times he’d handed Rosie over to strangers so he could drink peacefully, wallowing in misery that didn’t even seem  real. 

All he ever seems to feel these days is regret,  _misery_ ,  and every time he attempts to force himself out of the pit, he’s tugged right back in again. It’s a vicious, neverending cycle, and he still refuses to allow in help that might be just that: helpful.

He slides his mobile out of his pocket, slouching in the rocking chair he’s currently made himself comfortable in. Thumbing through his text messages, he settles on the one person who he’s quite sure is up at this time of night.

_ Hey. _

The answering text is almost immediate.

**_ Bit late for you to be up, isn’t it? -SH _ **

**_ Don’t you have the clinic in the morning? -SH _ **

John exhales lowly, running a hand through his hair with a weak chuckle. Thank god Sherlock’s a night owl. That, and the fact that he agrees to watch Rosie whenever the regular minder can’t make it. Even though John knows Sherlock isn’t fond of children, especially very young ones, he’s also seen how his friend is with Rosie. And, Rosie seems to adore him all the same, so it all works out.

_ Yeah. She’s fussing. _

_ One of those nights, I suppose. _

_** I’m told that’s generally what children her age like to do. -SH ** _

That, and the fact that maybe she’s still adjusting to her mother no longer being around. John’s there, too, but he’s a bit too old to be doing what Rosie’s doing. One of the more grim parts of being an adult: sucking it up.

John hesitates, for a moment, punching out a message before backspacing. He does have an idea, to get Rosie to calm, but . . . it’s something that also involves the man that he’s currently texting. A hard exhale, as he thumbs out another text.

_ Could I possibly call you? _

There’s no response whatsoever, and John pinches the bridge of his nose. It was worth a shot, he supposed. He sets the mobile down on the little side table next to Rosie’s crib where he has the monitor positioned. The receiving end is still located in his bedroom. He gently lifts Rosie up and out, cupping her back as he positions her against his chest with a soft exhale. Her little body is warm, and he presses his lips to the top of her head.

That’s when his mobile starts vibrating with a call, and he quickly grabs at it with his free hand, careful not to jostle Rosie too much. It’s Sherlock, and John pauses before he slides to answer, holding it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Is she still fussing?” comes the familiar baritone from the other end.

Rosie gives an upset whimper into the fabric of John’s shirt, clutching at it with a chubby fist as she sniffles. That’s enough of an answer, isn’t it? “Yeah. She’s been at it for almost an hour, now- she was fine when I put her down.”

There’s a shuffling. “Shall I play for her? That always seems to calm her, whenever she’s acting as such while in my care.”

“God, yes.” John’s pretty sure Sherlock can hear the imminent relief in his voice, but he doesn’t really care. He’s desperate for anything that works, at this point. “Anything at all, I don’t care what it is.”

There’s only more shuffling from Sherlock’s end, a bit of tuning, and . . . the sweet crooning of a violin drifts through the speaker of the phone, to which John turns the volume up and lays flat on the side table. Already, he can feel a Rosie starting to relax in his arms, her little noises fading away to almost nothing at all. Thank the bloody lord for that.

As John, too, relaxes, he begins to see a vivid image within his mind’s eye: a cosy evening at Baker Street, the fireplace crackling merrily, the remnants of dinner still on the kitchen table. Sherlock’s playing his violin, swaying about the sitting room, while John sits in his chair and has Rosie in his lap, who watches her godfather in awe. It all seems so very real, down to the genuine smile Sherlock sends his way, until John shakes himself from the moment.

Rosie’s steadily asleep, now, and still the violin plays on. John stealthily rises so that he can settle her in her crib, making sure she’s staying asleep before he takes the mobile with him. Carefully, he shuts her door, leaving it a crack open and heading down the hallway to his own bedroom. The violin’s stopped, then, and there’s a moment of silence.

“Thank you.” John murmurs, settling on the edge of his mattress. He’s permanently blocked the other side up with pillows; he doesn’t like to think about it.

“Of course.” Sherlock replies, before there’s an obvious pause — the crackle of static gives it away. “Are you alright?”

You. Not Rosie, but  you.  How can he be alright with all of this bullshit going on? How can he be bloody alright if he’s still trying to cope with all this new baggage that life’s decided to throw at him? But, Sherlock already knows all this. Hell, John snot-wept into the detective’s precious Dolce and Gabbana shirt over all of it while the other man comforted him.

“I’m doing the best I can. Not okay, but . . . it is what it is.” Those words hang heavily in the airwaves that separate them from each other, and John fists a hand into the bedspread as he sits there in the darkness.

“If you ever need anything . . .” Sherlock tentatively offers.

“I know. Thank you.” John responds, swallowing hard. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

John’s the one to hang up the call, making sure the baby monitor is on before he lays down underneath the bedsheets. He stares up at the ceiling, his hands folded over his abdomen.

He has a funny feeling that neither him or Sherlock Holmes are going to be sleeping tonight.


End file.
